


Half of a Whole

by TheDarkestSunrise



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Injury, POV First Person, dealing with death, self blame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkestSunrise/pseuds/TheDarkestSunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the pack was faced with a powerful enemy, Jordan wakes up in the hospital. He remembers Lydia getting hurt as well, and goes to find her. He runs into Scott, who has some bad news... (Jordan Parrish pov)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half of a Whole

**Author's Note:**

> This is a scene from an original story I came up with, but kind of abandoned because I couldn’t figure out how to go from one scene to the next… This was supposed to take place towards the end of the story after the main characters had to fight the bad guys. I was rereading it and pictured Marrish, so I made a few adjustments and this happened. I’m so sorry!! I hope you enjoy it!!

I slowly become aware of a rhythmic beeping. At first it seems to be coming from far, but the longer I listen to it, the clearer it becomes and I realise it isn’t as distant from me as I think it is. I don’t want to open my eyes. I’m comfortable here, wherever here is. And I’m tired, too tired to stand up. Too tired to open my eyes. But the beeping makes me aware of other things. The light coming through my eyelids, the aching of my body, the dryness of my mouth. Being aware of those things, I remember what happened.

The fight.

Blood.

We got hurt.

We made it out.

I open my eyes and look around. Try to let my eyes adjust to the brightness of the room. I’m surrounded by white walls, white ceilings, white furniture, and machinery. I immediately know where I am. A hospital. I focus on the devices at the side of my bed. One of them shows what I assume is my heartbeat and I realise it’s this device that brought me back to consciousness. Next to the thing that measures my heart rate stands a drip, a half-empty bag of blood attached to it. It’s strange that I needed a transfusion. I try to remember what happened, but it’s as if parts of my mind are missing. I follow the tubes that hang from the drip and track them back down to my left hand, where they disappear into my skin with aid of a needle. On my index finger I see a grey clip. I think about all the movies in which I have seen one of those, and I don’t have to check to know that this clip is attached to the heart rate machine.

I push myself up in the bed, but it takes a lot of effort for me to do so. And that’s not even taking the pain into consideration. The movement sends pangs into my side. I grunt while pushing myself into a comfortable sitting position. I feel something pull on my face, and I search for it with my hand. I find a bandage covering my cheek. I don’t remember getting cut there. I only remember the ache in my side, which won’t let me forget its presence, even if I wanted to. I push the covers away. I want to see how I’m holding up.

First thing I notice is that my shirt is missing. That’s probably a good thing, considering it was completely drenched with blood. And it’s not as if being shirtless makes any difference. I’m entirely wrapped in gauze. My side looks thicker than the rest and I don’t think it’s only from the padding they put against my wound. I’m not completely sure why I didn’t heal like I normally would. I’ve started to rely on my healing abilities more than I planned. Probably not a good idea… Looking at the gauze, I remember that I’m not the only one who got wounded.

 _Lydia!_  I think. I quickly scan the room to make sure there isn’t another bed containing her, but aside from me and the machinery attached to me, the room is empty. I slide my legs out of the bed and stand up. I have to keep myself propped up against the heart rate device until the black spots before my eyes are gone. It doesn’t matter that I might fall. I have to find her! I peel off the piece of tape that secures the needle in my arm and yank the needle out. I pull the clip from my finger, and the room is immediately filled with the high pitched beep that follows a cardiac arrest. I ignore it, it’s not like my heart is actually standing still.

I press my hand against the wound in my side as I leave the room. I enter a white hallway, and I have no idea where I should go to find Lydia.

As soon as I leave the room, I start hearing footsteps running towards me. Something inside me tells me to run, but I know I wouldn’t get far anyway. I’m not strong enough to flee. But I don’t have to.

Scott and his mother turn the corner, slowing down when they see me.

Mrs. McCall frowns. “You’re not supposed to be out of bed,” she says. “You lost a lot of blood. You still-”

“Where is Lydia?” I cut her off. Neither of them replies, but they quickly exchange a look. Instead, Mrs. McCall moves closer to me and tries to push me back into the room. I try to fight her off, but she’s stronger than she looks and having a huge sewed up cut in your side isn’t really helpful when trying to win a fight, even when you’re a Hellhound.

“Let me go!” I shout, “I need to-”

“You need rest,” Mrs. McCall tells me.

“Mum…”

Mrs. McCall turns towards her son, not letting go of me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Scott nod. Her hold on me loosens, and she lets go of my arm. She gives me a strange look before disappearing into the room I just came from.

“You should really listen to her, you know,” he says before I get the chance to open my mouth. “That wound was bad, even for you.”

“I don’t care,” I tell him. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

“You need to get some rest.” Scott doesn’t respond to my question, but puts a hand on my shoulder and tries to push me back towards the room, the same way the his mother did, albeit less brutal. I shove his hand away.

“Where is she?” I ask again, my voice louder this time.          

“Who?”

“Lydia of course!” I’m close to shouting. Why can’t he just give me a straight answer! “Whatever!” I push past him. I’ll find her myself. Even if I have to open every door in this building. I get a couple of meters away from him when Scott calls out.

“Jordan!” I turn around.

“What?” I stare at him, waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t. He just looks back at me for a while. There’s something about his face, about his eyes, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. He doesn’t say anything, until finally…

He slowly shakes his head.

I frown, not clear about what he’s trying to tell me. I want to ask him what’s going on when his eyes sink to the ground and his head lowers.

I stare at him, wondering what these actions mean. When I make the click in my head, I feel my frown disappear and my eyes widen. I turn away from Scott and just stare into the nothingness in front of me.

 _She’s not all right._  I can feel myself backing up towards the wall.

 _She didn’t make it out._  I hit the wall. My breathing becomes fast and shallow.

_She’s gone._

I slump down against the wall, ignoring the pain this causes in my side. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does anymore.  _She’s gone._ The words echo through my head.  _She’s gone she’s gone she’s gone she’s gone._

I can see it, her face right before she closed her eyes. She looked up at me, didn’t look away. As if she knew that I was going to be the last thing she was going to see.  _She knew._  I don’t want to blink, don’t want to lose that picture. The faint smile on her lips, her hazel eyes glued to mine. I can feel the tears wetting my eyes. I can’t blink. If I do, the picture will be tainted with teardrops.

I only notice that Scott came up to me when he sits down at my side. Eventually, I have to blink, and I feel the tears slide down my cheeks. I turn to him, want to ask him what happened, how it could’ve happened, why it happened. But the words don’t come out. I can’t form words. I can only forms the tears that fill my eyes and face.

I realise what’s wrong with his face. No, with his eyes. They are red, bloodshot and swollen. He doesn’t cry. He’s already done crying. For now.

I’m not. The quiet tears turn into loud sobs, the superficial breathing into hyperventilation. I break down. Fall apart right here against the hospital wall. I don’t see him put his hand on my shoulder, but suddenly it’s there. I swing my arm around him, seeking his comfort and support. I burry my face in his shoulder.

And I cry.

 

***

I feel numb.

I am numb.

I don’t know how I’m moving.

But somehow I am.

I’m walking down a corridor. Towards her.

For the last time.

Scott is walking next to me. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t need to. He told me everything I needed to know yesterday.

He told me that he was the one who found us after the fight. He told me how he called for help, how they carried me away. How I would’ve died if they hadn’t immediately brought me to the hospital. He told me he’d stayed with Lydia while his mother was trying to bring her back. He told me-

He told me that there was nothing they could do for her.

Scott had told me something about how she’d lost too much blood, how her internal injuries were too severe. I stopped listening at some point.

I remember realising that she must’ve died in my arms. I don’t know if I was still conscious when she did. I don’t remember. I hope I was. I hope I wasn’t. I hope I didn’t see her exhale her final breath. But I hope I did. I hope I was conscious when she died. Hope that she wasn’t alone.

I still hope that this is all just a nightmare.

I pierce my fingernails in the palm of my hand. Try to feel something. Try to wake up from this terrifying dream. It’s no use.

Scott is leading me to a door at the end of a hospital corridor, and I grow more anxious with every step I take. Every step I take is a step closer to her, yet it feels as if every step I take is a step further away from her.

He stops when we reach the door, turns to me.

“Ready?” he asks quietly.

 _No_  is what I think. _No_  is what I should tell him.  _No_  is what I don’t tell him. Why do people always ask if you’re ready for something they damn well know you’re not ready for? But this isn’t about me. It’s about her. My final act of bravery for her.

So I nod. Tell Scott I’m ready.

Though I’m not.

How could I?

Scott tries to give me a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t quiet reach his eyes, the sadness in them still clearly visible. I keep having to remind myself I’m not the only one who lost her. He turns back around to face the door and knocks three times. I’m feeling as if I might start to hyperventilate while waiting for the door to open. Waiting for what’s waiting for me on the other side.

The door opens.

A man dressed in white appears. Looks at me, looks at Scott.

“Mr. McCall, Mr. Parrish,” he greets us. From the corner of my eye I can see Scott nod as a way of greeting him back. I don’t acknowledge the man’s presence. My eye’s caught part of something in the room behind him.

I see a table.

I see a white cloth draped over the table.

I see the contours of a person lying on the table, covered by the white cloth draped over the table, over the person.

Over her.

I can’t swallow. My mouth is too dry. Too dry to speak. Too dry.

My stomach twists into a knot. One that gets harder to untangle with every second I look at the table, the cloth, the shape.

But I can’t look away.

“Are you ready?” a voice asks. I tear my gaze away from the sheet. Both Scott and the man in white are looking at me.  

All I can think of is how everyone needs to stop asking that stupid question.

I nod as a response, my mouth too dry to muster words.

The man makes way for me to enter the room, making me see her better. I stop breathing. I don’t need the oxygen anymore. I don’t need anything expect from her not lying under that sheet.

“I’ll wait out here,” Scott tells me, his hand on my shoulder.

I nod again, take a breath and enter the room.

I hear the door close behind me. I think. I’m not sure. I’m too absorbed by the figure under the white cloth. The length of the shape matches Lydia’s height.

I don’t want to move closer. I don’t dare to. I’m afraid of what will happen when the man pulls away the sheet. I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle it. That I’ll break down even more than I did when Scott told me she died.

I’m afraid that all of this will really become reality when the sheet disappears. That it won’t be a sadistic joke anymore.

“Are you ready?”

The man now stands next to the table, and I realise that I hate that question. It’s the worst thing anyone can ask you, and if I hear it one more time I think they can lock me away in a mental institution. I think I’ll go crazy from the urge to scream out how not ready I am for any of this. How not ready I am to see her. How not ready I am to say a final, permanent goodbye.

But I only nod.

And the man slowly peels away the sheet.

And her eyes are closed.

And I close mine.

And I stop breathing.

And I think I die.

The pain that spreads through my body is worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. Getting burnt alive, having my side slit open by the Oni, fighting the Dread Doctors. All those things combined isn’t nearly as horrible as the sight of her lying on that table.

Still.

Unmoving.

Lifeless.

Dead.

I open my eyes and I hope, I hope the scene in front of me has disappeared.

But it hasn’t.

She’s still lying there.

And I can’t breathe anymore.

The man comes my way, says “I’ll give you a moment”, touches my shoulder and leaves the room. Closes the door behind him.

I’m alone with her.

I slowly edge towards her, afraid to see her like this from up close, desperate to be close to her.

Her face is pale, so pale. So frozen. So beautiful. It’s been cleaned off of all the dirt and blood. Her blood.

If I didn’t know any better I’d say she was sleeping. But I do know better. And I know she’s not. She looks as if she could wake up every second now.  _Please wake up. God, please let her wake up._

I reach out to her cheek, hesitate right before touching it. I dread to find out how she feels now, deprived of her body heat, deprived of the pink shine on her face. I carefully lay my hand on her cheek, and a breath gets stuck in my throat when I feel the coldness being absorbed by my fingertips.

The first tear falls from my eye.

I take a few deep breaths. Think I’m ready. I’m not. Another few deep breaths.

“Hey, Lyds,” I whisper, my voice barely loud enough for me to hear. But I know she is able to hear it. Was able to hear it. Should be able to hear it. Was supposed to hear it. I blink and more tears slide down my face.

I move a stray hair away from her forehead, stroke her hair. My eyes move over her unmoving body, and stop at her stomach. The image of her covered in her own blood comes back to mind and I have to close my eyes and shake my head to get that picture to disappear.

Someone put a jacket on her. I realise this when I don’t see any blood. They covered it up. Made it look less devastating than it actually is. Make it look as if she fell asleep and didn’t wake up.  _Please wake up._

I think about how I will never feel her hand in mine, her arms around me. How with time I’ll forget the taste of her lips, the sound of her heartbeat when she stood close enough. And I’m scared that with time her face will become a blur of shapes I think belong to her. That her voice will become a sound that doesn’t fit her.

The sheet stops right under where her wound was, is, still covering her hands. I need to feel them one more time. One last time. Before they’ll leave mine forever.

So I pull the sheet away, revealing her hands. Her right hand so close to me.

I carefully cover it with my own. It’s so cold. So stiff. I automatically begin to stroke the skin between her index finger and thumb. The piece of skin housing the smallest of freckle. I wonder if she’d known about its existence if I hadn’t pointed it out to her. I want to smile thinking about her examining it when I told her about it, but the corners of my mouth are too weak to move.

I lift her hand, careful, thinking it might break if I’m too rough, and envelop it with my two hands. I realise her hand won’t ever fold around mine anymore, her fingers will never slide between mine. Silent tears run down my cheeks when I turn to look at her face. Part of me thought she might’ve moved. That me holding her hand might send heat back into her body. Bring her back. That part of me is incredibly stupid. So stupid.

And yet so hopeful.

Hoping for the impossible.

For a miracle.

That will never come.

I lift her hand higher and press a careful kiss on it. A final stroke between her index finger and thumb. And I place it back down on the table. Carefully.

I allow myself a final look at her face. A final long look.

I wish I could see the sparkle in her eyes, the smile on her lips.

I wish I had ignored her when she told me to save those three words for after the fight.  _“Just in case,”_ she had said. Just in case something happens to one of us.

I wish I would have told her.

I want to tell her.

“Lydia,” I begin. I take a breath. Think about how she’ll never respond to her name. I exhale, take another breath. “Lydia, I…” I swallow back the other two words. I can’t speak them. Not while knowing she’ll never hear them. Not while knowing she’ll never know how often I wanted to say them out loud.

I try to swallow the tears back along with the words. But the tears are too strong, and they keep coming. Don’t think they’ll ever stop.

It’s time to say goodbye.

I have to force myself to say goodbye.

A final kiss on her forehead, her cold skin pressed against my lips.

One last look at her face.

One last caress of her cheek.      

Suddenly, a white anger rushes through my veins. Finds its way to the utmost parts of my limbs. Rage blurs my sight. Rage at myself. At the things I could’ve done and the things I should’ve done. If I had been faster, stronger; if I had reached her sooner than I did, this wouldn’t have happened. How this is my fault. How she’s dead because I wasn’t enough, not strong or fast enough.  _This is my fault._

I want to break something. Need to break something. Have to.

I wipe a shelf clean. Throw the objects it’s supporting on the floor. And I think I scream. I know I scream.

And it’s not enough.

It’s not loud enough.

It’s not broken enough.

It will never be enough.

I break everything I find, throw everything I can’t break. I ravage the entire room, smash every piece of glass I come across. And the rage doesn’t subside. It’s just becomes too much to bear.

I collapse against a wall. I ignore the havoc I caused. Ignore the pain in my side, ignore the cuts in my hands and the blood on my clothes.

I can’t ignore the tears.

It’s worse than yesterday. Worse than anything I’ve ever experienced and I can’t imagine I will ever experience anything more devastating than this.

My hands are in my hair, pulling. Trying to tear all these memories and thoughts and images out of my head.

How could I ever believe that having someone you love die in your arms is something beautiful? How could I have been so stupid? So ignorant?

Beauty in seeing someone you love die? Where’s the beauty in that? There’s only heartbreak and chaos and nightmares and hope. Hope they won’t leave you. Hope that every breath they take isn’t going to be their last one. Hope that your voice will make them stay. Hope that the light doesn’t leave their eyes.

How could I ever believe something like that to be beautiful?

There’s no beauty in that. It’s nothing but cruel.

I hear the door open, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s Scott. I don’t care why he didn’t come in sooner. If it had been the other way around, if it had been Kira on that table, I would’ve let him break as many things as he’d like. Might’ve even helped him.

He sits down next to me, doesn’t say anything. What can he say?

There are no words to describe this, no words to make this better.

Nothing can make up for where I fell short. Nothing can compensate the things I lacked.

Nothing can make this not my fault. Those two words keep floating through my mind, getting louder and louder by the second. My fault. My fault.

 

My fault


End file.
